Bound by Him (The Billionaire's Club 3)

“Ouch, that hurt, Andrew,” Whitney complained, her wrists burning hot.

He laughed, his dark head thrown back, his teeth flashing white against his tan. “Love hurts, darling.”

They both smiled as they interlocked their fingers, and their sore wrists came into contact; the marks were identical, blood-reddened and swollen, only carrying different names.

That night, the look in his eyes as he made love to her, the way he spoke with such conviction as he joined his body to hers, made her truly believe that she would always belong to him. He felt so hard and hot inside her. So permanent.

He’d been desperate to get close to her, biting her, grinding her, squeezing her, licking her. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark. His ragged breaths in her ear. “We’re bound now, Whitney. I’m yours and you’re mine . . .”

“Andrew . . .” She remembered sobbing from the passion. From the pain of his imminent departure.

“Be mine, Whitney. Promise me forever.”

She clenched his hands tighter, nodding her head as fast as possible. “I’ll promise you more . . .”

He framed her cheeks within his palms, fiercely squeezing her. “Until the day I die, I vow to love you. Honor you. Protect you. Provide and care for you. I’ll be faithful to you. There will never be anyone for me but you . . .”

Whitney had repeated those words to him in breathless abandon. They’d been worth more than a wedding vow to her, and yet they’d obviously meant shit to Andrew.

Was she going to sell herself short to a man who would abandon her?

No.

She was done with playing the victim.

She’d been stuck in an awful past that had not been of her choosing.

Her parents had been loving, but a pleasure trip to Las Vegas and the awful hotel fire had taken them from her. Under the new guardianship of her uncle Harry, her fairy-tale life had come crashing down on her. She’d had no one but her friends back then, and she’d been too ashamed to tell them what her father’s brother did to her when he stole into her bedroom at night. For years, she’d felt dirty, unworthy. She’d been a spirited young girl, and suddenly she’d been broken.

It had taken long, too long, to realize she wasn’t to blame.

Not, even, for being the person holding the knife that killed Uncle Harry.

She hadn’t chosen any of what happened—she had been a victim, as the therapist had told her many, many times. She’d learned to accept that there were some things you couldn’t control, and it had lessened her fear of being physically hurt again.

But there was no denying the power Andrew Fairchild had over her.

He was her life—her first thought in the morning, her last thought at night.

She’d lost him for years, but every day, he’d been the reason she’d pushed through, held on, tried to be strong.

She’d been faithful to him, obediently waiting. But what had he been doing all this time?

A man like him wouldn’t be celibate for so long. Even with her name on his wrists, he’d probably slept with a dozen other women. It infuriated her, and suddenly she knew she wasn’t going to let him claim her so easily again.

She couldn’t be so easy, sell herself so cheaply to him. She’d dedicated herself to championing women, arranging for motivational talks that would encourage them to take control and say no to anyone who was being unjust and hurting them.

She’d been in therapy for three years, talking about her self-worth, her emotions, trying to stop feeling like a guilty party as well as a victim. But what kind of woman waited so long for a man, and then let him back in as if what he’d done hadn’t hurt without even demanding a decent explanation?

Not you, Whitney.

Hanging on to that thought, she entered the three-story building of Donahue’s, the biggest family-owned hardware business chain in the United States. And when she said family, it actually meant just her alone.

The specialized individuals currently in charge had been running Donahue’s for over a decade, since her parents died. But while Whitney preferred to dedicate her own time mostly to her charity work, she’d recently taken over a seat on the board and kept a small office on the third floor of the main store, where she could oversee the workings of the company from up close, and handle the planning of all the benefits she and Chloe frequently organized.

“Good morning, Felicia, how’s your mother doing?” she asked her personal assistant, who straightened from behind her desk and immediately followed her into her office.

“She’s out of the hospital today, thank God,” Felicia said, heading over the minibar to toil with the coffeemaker.